As If Being 12 3/4 Isn't Bad Enough, My Mother Is Running for President!

by Donna Gephart

  9. I’ll do my best to keep guns out of the hands of those who shouldn’t have them. (This is most people.) Sometimes, Nessa, I think “NRA” (National Rifle Association) actually stands for “Nuts Running Amuck”!

  8. It’s important to work on peace negotiations in the Middle East. We need to do all we can to stabilize that region.

  7. The poor need aid. Nessa, we don’t realize how much we have in this country. So many people in this world do not have the basic necessities that we take for granted.

  6. I’d like to be part of the effort to bring the United States back to number one in education—especially science and math. Especially for girls!

  5. I will give tax breaks and incentives to the middle class for working hard and contributing to society. (I know, I sound like I’m campaigning here, but it’s true.)

  4. I’d like to contribute to increased literacy worldwide. I’m a big believer in the Each One Teach One philosophy. Reading is a key that unlocks many doors.

  3. Here’s a big one, Nessa: We need to stop our dependency on fossil fuels and fund alternative sources of cleaner energy. The reasons to work hard on this are too numerous to list here.

  2. I’d like to see good-quality health care available for all Americans, especially our children and the elderly. But the number one reason I want to be president is:

  1. I’d like to bring a feeling of hope and optimism back to the country so that Americans don’t feel they need to sacrifice freedom for a sense of security and safety. Benjamin Franklin once wrote, “Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety.”

  Whatever that means!

  Mom sends one more e-mail:

  P.S. The real reason I want to be president is: If we lived in the White House, we could have midnight bowling parties right in our own home. How cool would that be?

  I can’t help laughing at that, but as far as the rest of Mom’s list, all I see is:

  10. Blah.

  9. Blah.

  8. Blah.

  7. Blah.

  6. Blah.

  5. Blah.

  4. Blah.

  3. Blah.

  2. Blah.

  1. Benjamin Franklin once said, “Blah.”

  Because even though those things are really important, not one of them matters more to me than Mom’s safety. And I’m willing to give up anything to ensure that. But how?

  Two weeks later, near the end of March, when I watch the news to get a glimpse of Mom, I see a report about a man who’s been killed in a plane crash. I bite the back of my hand to keep from crying. I imagine some girl having to go through what I went through. Maybe I can write her a letter of support. I sure got lots of them when it happened to us.

  I reach into the back of my closet and pull out my Dad box again. I never make it to the letters of support, though. I pick up the article about the accident and read: “Charles Rothrock, attorney and husband of Florida governor Elyssa Rothrock, was killed in a plane crash early this morning. He was flying…” I wipe my nose with a tissue and kiss the clipping. “I love you, Daddy,” I whisper. I put the article back and see the envelope with “Final Notice” scrawled in blood-red ink.

  Since I’m already feeling brave from looking at the article, I slide my finger under the flap of the envelope. “Damn.” The paper cut stings. Not a good sign. I hope there’s no weird substance on the envelope that’s now seeping into my bloodstream through the gaping wound. Actually, it’s just a little slit below my knuckle, but it hurts like a gaping wound.

  While sucking on the cut, I read:

  Roses are red.

  Violets are blue.

  Maybe it’s a poem from my secret admirer, after all. Maybe it has nothing to do with Mom or the campaign.

  If your mom doesn’t quit, VANESSA,

  I shall kill you!

  Or her.

  So you’d better find a way to make her drop out. NOW!

  And just a reminder: Tell anyone about this letter and you can kiss your mommy good-bye. Forever!

  My first thought? Why did I wait so long to open this letter? What if Mom is in danger because I didn’t do something right away? My second thought? That creep used my name again. Third thought? No third thought. I grab the phone and dial Mom.

  “Nessa. To what do I owe this honor?”

  I have to tell her. But what if the phone line is tapped? Or what if the person who wrote the letters is standing right next to her?

  “Nessa?”

  “I’m here.” My voice sounds crumbly.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yes. No. I mean yes.”

  “Vanessa, put Grandma on.”

  “Grandma?”

  “You know, the older woman who gave birth to me and gives you a large monetary gift every year on your birthday.”

  That’s so not funny. Not now. I swallow hard. “Isn’t Grandma campaigning with you?” Is she in danger, too?

  I hear what I think is Mom hitting herself in the forehead with her hand. “I forgot,” she says. “This schedule is crazy. Sometimes I don’t even know what state I’m in. I mean, other than the state of confusion.”

  Still not funny, Mom.

  “Who is there with you, Nessa?”

  “Mrs. Perez, I guess. The usual people.” I wonder if someone else might be in the house. Maybe the person who wrote the letters is in the house with me. I shake the thought from my mind and try to stop freaking myself out. “Who’s there with you, Mom?”

  “Some security personnel. Two assistants—Kyle James and Nicole Matthesen. Arnie, of course. Speaking of Arnie, guess who’s signaling me to hang up? Nessa, are you sure you’re okay?”

  I’m afraid somebody’s going to kill me. Or YOU! “I’m fine.” I’ve got to find a way to make Mom drop out of the race.

  “Vanessa?”

  “Yeah, Mom?” I’ve got to come up with a plan.

  “I really need to go. Arnie’s waving frantically. I think if I don’t hurry, his arms are going to dislocate. Coming, Arnie! There, now he looks only mildly panicked. I think I’m late for a flight.”

  Oh, great. “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful.”

  “I’m always careful.”

  So was Daddy. “I love you.”

  “Nessa, I love you, too. I’ll see you soon.”

  I hope so. I hold the phone awhile after Mom hangs up. Then I turn on the computer. When someone knocks on my door, I jump. “Come in.”

  It’s Mr. Adams’s assistant, Ms. Wright.

  “Hi, Vanessa. Mr. Adams asked me to bring you these.” She holds up a stack of envelopes. “Another pile of fan letters and an interview request.”

  “Okay.” Go away.

  “The interview request is from Teen Scene Magazine,” she says, not getting my mental message.

  Act normal, Vanessa. As if! “The Teen Scene”? I ask. “The Teen Scene with those gorgeous guys on the cover?”

  She ducks her head. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. But yes. In fact, it is the Teen Scene with a circulation of two and a half million. The editor in chief requested the interview with you. How could we say no?”

  I bite my lip. “But kids, the ones who read that magazine, don’t vote.”

  Ms. Wright grins. “Their parents do. And the kids will vote someday. Besides, any good press is, well, good press.”

  I shrug. “I guess so.” Please go away!

  “Be extra careful with your answers on that questionnaire. And be sure to give it back to our office for a final check.”

  I always give everything to your office for a final check. What else would I do? “Sure.” I smile my sweetest smile, hoping she’ll leave.

  “Great, Vanessa. Thanks.”

  I nod, glad when she finally leaves the Purple Palace. I wish I could lock my door.

  I ignore the pile of fan letters and the interview request from Teen Scene Magazine and get back to the computer. W
hen Mrs. Perez calls me for dinner, I tell her I’m not hungry even though I’m starving.

  When I find all the information I need, I e-mail the following message to Mom:

  Subject: Ten Reasons You Should NOT Run for President

  1. Andrew Jackson

  2. Franklin D. Roosevelt

  3. Harry S. Truman

  4. Gerald Ford

  5. Ronald Reagan, and more importantly,

  6. Abraham Lincoln

  7. James A. Garfield

  8. William McKinley

  9. John F. Kennedy, and most importantly,

  10. I don’t want YOUR name on this list!

  I’m surprised when the phone rings minutes after I hit “send.”

  “Vanessa, why did you send this to me?” Mom sounds totally annoyed, but I’m relieved to hear her voice.

  Isn’t it obvious? “I just thought you should…be aware—”

  “Vanessa, you know I’m very busy here. I thought we already went through this. Do you know what this list is?”

  Of course I know what the list is. I sent it, didn’t I? Be brave. “Yes. Do you?”

  Then, as though I hadn’t just spoken, Mom says, “These are presidents who survived an assassination attempt. And those who didn’t!”

  “That’s right,” I say, glad she finally gets it, realizes how dangerous this is. Finally understands that she’ll have to stop campaigning because nothing, and I mean nothing, is worth her life.

  Mom sighs. “Nessa. Sweetheart. Listen to me: Nothing is going to happen to me. Do you understand? We cannot operate out of fear.”

  I take the rhomboid-shaped piece of purple cast from my jewelry box—the part that says “To Vanessa, a courageous girl. Arnold Schwarzenegger.” It smells like dirty socks, but I keep it anyway. I’m not courageous. I’m scared. And I don’t care that I’m operating out of fear.

  “Vanessa, I’m not going to let anything deter me from this campaign.”

  Not even a threat on your life? “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I was afraid of that,” I mutter.

  “What did you say? The connection’s breaking up.”

  “It’s just…” She doesn’t understand at all. “I’ll bet that’s what those men on that list thought, too,” I say in way too hysterical a voice, “before they were…they were…” I squeeze the phone. “Mom, you don’t know. It could happen.”

  I thought I didn’t want Mom to run for president for me—so I’d have more time with her. But I realize it’s bigger than that. I don’t want her to run for president for her. I don’t want anything horrible to happen to her.

  Her voice soothes my nerves. “Yes, it could happen, Vanessa, but it won’t. I’ve got better protection than Fort Knox.”

  “Mom!”

  “Sorry. But there really is security around me at all times. I’m safe.”

  You’re never safe. I know that. “It can still happen. It did happen and I don’t want it to happen again.”

  Mom lets out a big breath. “Daddy’s…accident…was years ago. I realize that makes you depend on me more. But that just means I’ll be more dependable.”

  My shoulders slump. “You sound like you’re making a speech.”

  “Do I? Hazard of the job, I suppose.”

  How can she take this so lightly? I glance at the awful letter. I have to make her understand. “This is serious, Mom!”

  “Lighten up, Nessa. Did you realize I have two things every person on that list doesn’t?”

  I think Mom is talking about me and maybe Grandma.

  “Want to know what they are?”

  I rub the piece of cast between my fingers. “I suppose.”

  “Boobs.”

  I laugh so hard I gag. “Mom!” I look around as though someone could have heard. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “Well, I did. Now, get some rest, stop worrying, and I’ll see you in a few days.”

  “A few days?”

  “Vanessa, I’ll be fine. Promise.”

  “So long, Mom,” I say, reluctant to let her go.

  “So long, Nessa.”

  After I hang up, I look at my Dad box. I wish he were here now. He’d know what to do. But Dad’s not here. I pull my shoulders back. I have to find a way to save Mom, a way to get her to drop out of the race.

  Because I’m not willing to have a Mom box, too.

  By the time Mom returns home a few days later, I’ve talked myself into believing that the threatening letters are a hoax.

  Someone from school, I’m convinced, is trying to scare me. And I feel like a complete idiot for falling for it. With my luck, it’s Reginald. He might have dropped the secret-admirer letters into my locker and when that didn’t get the kind of reaction he wanted from me, he moved on to scary letters. If Reginald is behind this, I hope he gets caught and ends up in huge trouble.

  Actually, I hope it is Reginald. Or some kid from school playing a joke on me. A cruel joke. At least then Mom will be safe.

  But in case the letters are real, especially the parts about not telling anyone, I still haven’t told a single person.

  As I sit in the Purple Palace with Carter in my lap, I reread the letter, lingering over its ridiculous rhyme. “Roses are red. Violets are blue.” The more I look at it, the more I’m sure Mom will burst out laughing when she reads it and tell me it’s even sillier than the one I showed her that day in her office with Governor Schwarzenegger.

  But the icy shiver that runs along my spine when I touch the letter makes me think Mom may take this one seriously. The creepy feeling I get when I hold it makes me think it’s real. And if that’s the case, I shouldn’t show Mom or anyone else because that would put Mom in terrible jeopardy.

  I bite the skin beside my thumbnail and try to figure out what to do.

  “I have to show Mom,” I tell Carter, placing him gently on my pillow. “She’ll know what to do.”

  I slip on my shoes, pray I’m making the right decision, and head out of the Purple Palace, gripping the letter in my sweaty, shaky hand. I almost turn back before I get to Mom’s office, but take a deep breath and continue on.

  When I stride past Ms. Purdy and her “Vanessa, don’t—” into Mom’s office, Governor Schwarzenegger is not there, which is a shame because he’s a totally cool guy (even if he is a Republican).

  Today, the lieutenant governor turns around and glares at me. She’s not nearly as friendly as Governor Schwarzenegger. Maybe I don’t have the best timing in the world, but this is a matter of life and death. I had to barge in on their—

  “Vanessa, you’re interrupting our budget meeting,” Mom says coolly, anger in her eyes.

  “But, Mom—”

  “And you are never, ever to do this again. Do you understand?”

  “Mom—”

  “Walk out, please,” she says in an even tone. “And make an appointment with Ms. Purdy to see me.”

  “An appointment?” Thanks so much for embarrassing me in front of the lieutenant (Lieutenant. L-I-E-U-T-E-N-A-N-T. Lieutenant.) governor of Florida!

  Mom doesn’t say another word. She raises her left eyebrow, and I turn toward the door and march out. An appointment! To see my own mother. File that under call-the-child-welfare-department!

  Ms. Purdy loves that I have to make an appointment. She clucks her tongue at me no fewer than four times and draws out the process intolerably. Finally, she hands me a slip of paper that reads: “Dining room at seven.”

  Back in the Purple Palace, I grip Carter by his blue neck and say, “This is going too far! ‘Dining room at seven.’ I’m surprised she didn’t write ‘Formal attire required.’” I pace. “You know, Carter, this campaign is making Mom’s head entirely too swelled. It’s no wonder, too, with everyone catering to her every whim. ‘Would you like more cream in your coffee, Governor?’ ‘Can I get you a pillow for your back, Governor?’ Maybe one of her staff would like to wipe her nose for her, too!”

  Carter says no
thing.

  “Dumb…donkey!”

  At seven, when I join Mom in the dining room, she acts as if nothing is wrong. In fact, she’s totally absorbed in some papers when I come in. To her credit, though, when she actually notices I’m there—it isn’t hard to do because on the way in, I trip on a bump in the carpet—Mom removes her glasses, puts the papers in her briefcase, and says, “Hello, Nessa,” in a really nice way.

  Someone is serving our salads—“Governor, would you like fresh ground pepper on that?”—when Mom looks up and says, “Nessa, what was it you wanted to talk to me about earlier?”

  I consider telling Mom it was nothing, but I have the letter on my lap. And the thought of keeping it from Mom any longer makes me feel sick to my stomach. I pull the letter from under my napkin and slide it across the table.

  Mom slips on her glasses. “What’s this?” she asks, not really looking at it yet. “Another fund-raiser from school?”

  I mumble, “It’s from school…sort of,” and at that moment, Mom gasps. I’m afraid she’ll choke on a radish, but she composes herself.

  Letter clutched in her fist, Mom sputters, “Vanessa…how? Where?”

  My heart pounds like crazy and my cheeks heat up. I guess I was hoping she’d tell me it was nothing to worry about. A prank. The look on her face scares me.

  But I realize that Mom will want to drop out of the race now, and we can resume our regularly scheduled lives. And this creep will leave us alone, too. As long as he doesn’t find out I showed Mom the letter. My heart pounds so hard my head hurts. But if Mom drops out quietly, he’ll never find out I showed her the letter. This is the solution I was looking for all along. Now things will finally go back to normal. “I guess this is a credible threat, then?”

  Mom shakes the letter at me. “This is…Where did you…?”

  “In my locker.” Calm down. You’re freaking me out. “At school.”

  “Your locker? At school?” Mom whips off her glasses and pushes back from the table. “Excuse me.”

  “Mom—”

  She walks out, leaving her salad to wilt.

  “Come here.” Mom pats the edge of her bed. “Tell me about the letter.”

  It’s been nearly two hours since Mom walked away from the dinner table. I’ve had plenty of time to think, er, panic about this situation. Should I tell Mom everything?